Summer Suite
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Don't Bug Me!
Whenever we can, usually every year or so, my two
daughters and I 'escape' from Tokyo for a while, and spend some time
down at the house in the country village where their late grandfather
lived. An elderly aunt of theirs lives there by herself now, and as
there's lots of room, she doesn't mind much if we 'drop in' for a
while. A typical visit usually lasts for a couple of weeks, and we
always have a very good time, but the visit is not without problems
...
My girls are still quite young, nine and eleven,
and I always have the same trouble with them each time we arrive in
the country. They don't want to use the toilet. I think you can guess
why. The house is very old, and the dark and gloomy bathroom, 'out
back' behind the main building, and next to an old woodpile, is
pretty scary territory for little girls. It's mostly the 'wildlife'.
Every time you open the door and look in, you catch quick glimpses of
various insects and 'creepy-crawlies' all running off into little
cracks and chinks in the walls.
Sometimes one of the bolder ones, perhaps a beetle
of some sort, perhaps a big spider the size of my open hand, will
hold its ground, refusing to budge. It seems almost to be quite
defiant, daring you to enter its territory. With the girls, this
strategy usually works, and they run off in a panic to fetch some
adult assistance. I say 'with the girls', but I have to admit that
even I too have been given pause before entering, and once when I
found a short snake in temporary residence in there, I withdrew
quietly, and 'took my business' elsewhere ...
The aunt just laughs at us. She's lived there all
her life, and these 'guests' are simply small nuisances to be chased
away, brushed aside, or stepped on as necessary. Us 'city slickers'
though, aren't so experienced as she. For all our lives, we've lived
in an environment where no surprises lurk behind bathroom doors, and
no 'guests' live with us.
But which of these attitudes is more natural; to
live in quite close proximity to these (mostly) harmless neighbours,
and share living space with them, or to maintain a rigourously clean,
not to say sterile, environment, and keep them all out? Both options
seem somewhat wrong to me. None of us wants to have bugs nibbling
food in our kitchens, but on the other hand, as a result of the
forced sterility of our city life, my daughters seem to be growing up
with the feeling that they must avoid contact with just about all the
other creatures that live on this planet with us. They are not
'friends' of ours, but things to be feared.
This cannot be a healthy attitude for them, and I
must try and make sure that during our short times spent in the
country, they get acquainted with as much of the local fauna as
possible; the little frogs in the garden, the hawks floating over the
fields, the mice living in the pile of straw, and yes, even those
little 'guests' who share our bathroom.
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'Under Construction'
My friend Ushiro-san is building a log house down
here in the country. So far, it has taken him about five years, and
it's still far from ready for his family to move in. When I ask him
how much longer it will probably take, he just shrugs his shoulders
... who knows ...
Five years! Do you think he is lazy? Don't you
think he is a little bit too slow? Well actually, he's neither. He
works very hard on the house ... when he can. You see, not only does
he have a full-time job to go to every day, and thus only has
weekends and holidays free for his house project, but his future home
is located about 300 kilometers away from his current residence. That
means an awful lot of time spent just in travelling back and forth.
Obviously Shigeyoshi-san is very, very dedicated to his home building
project, and I'm amazed that he's got as far as he has, in just five
years.
The log walls are up, the roof is finally on, and
he is now building doors and windows, all by hand. The plumbing and
electrical wiring will come next, and then the interior finishing.
When you hear this story, do you say "Taihen, desu
ne!"? I think Ushiro-san probably hears this phrase a lot ... but
he'll never hear it from me! I would rather say, "Tanoshii, desu ne!"
Yes of course, his work is 'taihen' ... hard, heavy and time
consuming. But it is also something very special. With his own two
hands, along with help from his family, Shigeyoshi-san is building
his own home - a place where his children will grow up, and the
family roots will go down.
In times gone by, before the age of large cities,
building one's own home must have been something that nearly every
man did as a matter of course. But these days, it is an
accomplishment that very few of us achieve. When I was somewhat
younger, in my early 20's, I too thought that one day I would like to
take on such a big project, but now that I find myself in my 40's, I
wonder if I would be able to find the energy. And by the time I do
finally get it together in terms of land and money, I suppose my kids
will have grown up and left, and that seems to take away a lot of the
motivation for doing it in the first place ...
But Ushiro-san is well under way. When his family
does finally move in, in the (I hope) not too distant future, they
will enjoy the pleasure of knowing that every log, every board, and
every rail, was put in place by their father, not by a blase group of
professional carpenters, who were 'here today, somewhere else
tomorrow'. What more satisfying and interesting work could there
possibly be for a man? As he raises his children, so does he raise
his home, with love and care ...
So surely with a project this important and
enjoyable, the longer it takes ... the better. Only 5 years so far -
Ushiro-san, I hope it will take you 50 more!
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Wooden School
One building dominates the village, and it's the
first thing that comes into view as the bus rounds the final turn,
coming up the road from the city down on the coast. The road hugs one
side of the valley, tight against the steep mountainside, and twists
and turns, left and right, as it follows the contours, making its way
past the wide rice fields waving under the summer sun.
The name of this village, where grandad grew up,
is Ozato, 'big village', but this only makes sense in comparison to
the tiny clusters of houses scattered here and there in corners of
the long valley. There are only a few dozen houses even here, but as
it sits roughly halfway between the river mouth at the bottom, and
the final tiny hamlet up at the other end, it is a focal point of
valley activity.
It was thus natural that the education authority
should choose Ozato as the site for the valley middle school over 100
years ago, and it is the roof of this long low wooden building,
standing on the mountainside at a slightly higher level than the
village houses, that one sees from the bus.
Late the other day, out on a stroll with my two
daughters in the early evening cool, we come up the hill towards this
place. The wooden walls are a deep brown, mottled and stained over
the decades, but still a rich colour, not bleached to a dull grey as
are most of the old houses nearby. We cross the stony playground,
climb the front steps, and find that not only do no locks keep us
out, but there are not even any doors to block our access to the
wooden hallway that runs the length of the building, off to our left
and right.
Kicking off our shoes, we step up onto the dark,
shiny wooden floor, and enter another world. I can think of no words
more apt than that tired old phrase 'polished smooth by generations
of feet', to describe this building. Not only the floors, but
everywhere within reach has been rubbed until it actually glows in
the late sunlight that streams horizontally through the front
windows. The doorknobs, handrails, posts ... everything has a deep
sheen like an old-master violin. How many hands have swung around
this corner post here? How many feet have slid across this
entranceway?
The three of us sit down in a row of students'
desks. We disturb nothing, we just want to soak up a tiny bit of the
ambience of this amazing place, but the light is fading rapidly now,
so we quickly walk round the rest of the building. Everything brown.
Golden brown everywhere, and burnished clean until it glows! As we
leave and make our way homeward through the now darkened lanes of the
village, that long row of windows behind us catches the last light,
and reflects the glow of the evening sky. We are each silent with our
own thoughts.
But now I have to confess that I have not been
quite fair with you while writing this little story. I have used
words like 'is', 'stands', and 'are', and oh how I wish that they
were true! For these words are now lies, and had I been honest with
you, I would have said 'was', 'stood', and 'were'. For this story was
last year's story, and during the past winter, this magical building
was replaced with a modern concrete structure.
I suppose the students are happy in their clean,
bright, not to say warm classrooms. I suppose the insurance company
is happy, secure in the knowledge that this building will not catch
fire one cold night. I suppose the village parents are happy, knowing
that their children have a facility the equal of those in the big
cities. But if everybody is so happy, then why are my eyes full of
water?
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Getting Better ...
I've been here in Japan long enough now that it is
possible for me to notice changes taking place in this society.
During the first couple of years here, everything was fresh and new
to me, and my only basis for comparison was between Canada and Japan.
But I've gradually grown accustomed to things here, and can now see
some differences between the Japan of eight years ago when I arrived,
and the Japan of the present.
During our first summer-time trip down to
Grandad's country village, I was quite shocked at the amount of
garbage I saw in the river where we swam every day, surrounded by the
crowds of sun-browned elementary school kids. I don't say this to
reinforce your perception of Canada as a wonderful, green, clean
country, for there are certainly no shortage of beer cans in the
rivers there too, but that this beautiful swimming area right in the
centre of the village should be so spoiled with junk, was quite a
disappointment for me.
We didn't say anything to those kids, and we
didn't chastize, but one day, after a week or so of swimming
surrounded by garbage, we went back to the house, grabbed some large
plastic bags, came back to the river, and started filling them up
with trash. We noticed three kinds of reactions from the kids playing
in the river. Most of them either didn't notice what we were doing,
or simply ignored us. Another group, just a few, stared and pointed
at us, and made some "Henna gaijin" type of comments. But a third
group, also just a few, started to help, collecting stuff and
bringing it to help fill our bags.
From then on, we made this a regular habit, and
always returned from swimming trips carrying bags of assorted
garbage, and I suppose the village gradually got used to our
behaviour. Year after year, there was always lots to pick up. The
garbage was mostly made up of a few standard items: styrofoam noodle
cups and plastic snack food packages thrown away by the little kids,
coffee, beer cans, and cigarette packages from their fathers, and
third (and most disturbing) large plastic sacks that had contained
agricultural chemicals, obviously discarded by farmers whose plots
bordered the river.
I've been using 'past tense' verbs, but now let's
switch to the present. How is the river now? Well, as all but
brand-new arrivals in Japan know, the situation has improved
markedly. In recent years the amount of garbage we bring home from
the river has greatly decreased, and we no longer automatically take
the plastic bags with us when we go swimming. It's not perfect by any
means. The first type of garbage is still to be seen here and there,
but the second is quite rare, and I haven't seen any of the third at
all for a number of years now. Please don't think that I'm trying to
take any credit for this improvement. We're only in the village for a
few weeks in any given year, and this gradual cleaning-up of Japan is
a much wider phenomenon than just this one little river pool.
I understand that the Tokyo Olympics back in the
60's was a major turning point. Friends tell me that the Tama River
near my home in Hamura was an absolute garbage heap before that time,
being heaped with old cars, tires, furniture, household garbage, and
all manner of junk. But a new ethic has gradually replaced the old
one, following that initial stimulus of wanting to show a clean face
to the international visitors. The old cars have been replaced by
cherry trees, and the area is now the 'pride and joy' of Hamura.
And of course, that's why they keep it clean,
because it has been transformed from 'soto' to 'uchi', from something
'outside' that belonged to no one, to something 'inside' that belongs
to someone, in this case, the city people. The next step is obvious
... to enlarge this viewpoint to include in the 'uchi'
classification, not only ones own village or town, but each road,
river and mountain in Japan. And then further, to every square inch
of this entire planet. This process is well under way. Let's all do
what we can to give it a boost.
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Is God Green?
It was mostly to get away from the Tokyo mugginess
that we came down here to the country this August, but we're finding
that this is one of those long, very hot summers that seem to come by
every few years, and there's just no escaping the oppressive heat,
even here.
Yesterday I rather unwisely stepped out for a
stroll around the village during the mid-afternoon, and within a few
minutes was gasping for breath and looking around for somewhere to
shelter from the glare. A narrow footpath leading off to one side
seemed to offer some relief, and I followed it as it led between a
couple of old stone walls, and then up the hillside. A few steps up,
and then ... a pair of small stone lions, one each side, guarding the
entrance. Of course, the village shrine.
I step into the compound, and the heat is turned
off as though with a switch. Trees tower up on each side of the
pathway. Tall 'sugi', even their lowest of their branches far, far
above my head. The sky is invisible, the outside world shut out, the
air cool and still. I walk forward through the dim light towards the
little shrine building, old grey, and ramshackle. The rope hanging
down is knotted and frayed.
I don't ring the bell. I never do when visiting
these places. I'm not a religious person, in any religion, and to
play with things like this, seems to me to be a bit of an insult to
those people for whom this has meaning. I'm simply content to enjoy
the feeling of calm peacefullness that pervades this place. And then,
I notice it, standing off to one side. A tree.
But how useless are those two words - a tree - to
describe to you what I see there. A massive, massive presence. What
name of tree I have no idea. Not like the surrounding sugi, with
shafts tall and straight shooting directly skyward from below the
surface of the earth, this tree boils aloft from a gigantic tangle of
earth, stones, and writhing roots. An old stone fence enclosing it is
pushed aside, and leans this way and that. Arching my head back to
follow the vast trunk upwards, my vision is lost in a tangle of huge
twisted limbs, and shrouding greenery, and I stand stupidly with
mouth agape, trying to take in what I see.
A tree. Ridiculous little words. This is not a
tree. I know trees. They are nothing but bigger versions of the
little plants in our garden, just another creation of life on earth,
like the frog hopping there in the pond, the cat sleeping on the
porch, just like you and me standing here. This ... is something
else. This is not a 'tree', not a 'plant', not a 'creature'. It is
... an entity ... something above and beyond all these things.
Yes I suppose, at one time hundreds of years ago,
it was a little plant. Then it became a tree. But then somehow,
during the passage of all those years and years and years, it
transcended those concepts. It transformed itself into ...
And then I understand something of the
significance of this place. Of that dirty little building standing
there. A long time ago, some men knocked a few boards together into a
little building shape and said, "This structure shall be our
'shrine'. It shall represent 'godness', and we will stand here to
worship." And to protect it, they planted trees nearby. Trees that,
while they were day-by-day growing ever so slowly larger and taller,
watched all the visitors, heard all the prayers offered, and listened
... and listened ... and listened.
Among those who now come here to ring the bell and
commune with their god, how many do you think realize that there he
stands, silently watching them?
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'Rajio Taiso'
Did you see the "Annual Hyaku-man nin Rajio-Taiso
Chuo Taikai" on NHK the other day? It was at 6:30 AM, which is a good
half-hour before I usually wake up, but down here in the country for
the summer, our schedule is set by the kids' aunt, who gets up around
five or so every day to start making rice for breakfast. She also
turns on her TV to get the up-to-date weather forecast, so we thus
get quite familiar with early morning TV programs while we're here.
Now of course, having lived in Japan for eight
years, I'm basically familiar with 'radio taiso'. A number of the
factories near my Tokyo apartment broadcast it in the mornings, and I
see the workers exercising as I cycle by on the way to my morning
swim at the local pool. I must say that they don't look too
enthusiastic about doing it, but I quite sympathize with them.
Compulsory exercising has never been a favorite with me, either. In
fact, pretty much every single time I've seen people doing 'radio
taiso', the only ones who look like they're enjoying themselves are
the people standing up front leading, who presumably are the ones who
organized the activity in the first place. My image of 'radio taiso'
then, is that it is an activity that most people would rather forego,
but one that 'organizer-type' people, factory managers, school
principals, community leaders, etc., are rather fond of.
I was thus a bit astonished then, to see on the TV
screen the image of an entire sports stadium full of people all
swinging their arms in those familiar patterns, to that familiar
piano music ...
Not only was the playing field itself totally
covered with the swaying figures, but the stands as well. Thousands
and thousands of people. And this was a 6:30 AM live TV broadcast! At
what time of the morning had they all got up in order to get to the
stadium on time to do this? And why?
As the cameras panned back and forth across the
field, and then moved in for close-ups, I got a few hints as to the
answer. This patch of blue colour here looked like a community
baseball team, over there was a boy scout troop, and next to them was
what looked like a seniors' gateball club. In fact, nearly everybody
I could see was wearing some kind of uniform. Of course! They were
all members of various community groups, and I suppose when their
leaders got the 'request' from NHK to join this event, there was just
no way they could refuse. And then the members of each group just did
what they were told, and presented themselves at the stadium on time,
ready for the event.
Japanese readers are probably wondering why I
think that any of this is worthy of comment, but believe me, from a
Canadian's point of view, this is rather an unusual activity. Yes of
course, Canadians also get together in stadiums for various reasons,
and perhaps even at unusual times of day (although offhand, I can't
quite think of a reason for them to assemble at 6:30 AM!), but if you
were to ask the members of any particular group in a typical Canadian
town to be at their sports stadium at this time of day to do ten
minutes of stretching exercises, and ... that's all, they would
probably not react very favourably to the idea. They just don't have
the tradition of doing 'radio taiso', and I think also that their
ties to clubs and groups are weaker than in this country, and they
can say "no" more easily to things they would rather not do.
But for people here, when the leader calls ... out
they come. And what about those among them who would rather stay in
bed? At least they can take consolation in the fact that if NHK is
rotating this program from prefecture to prefecture each year, then
it'll be nearly half a century before it comes around to their turn
again!
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Evening River
The long hot noisy summer day is almost over. My
kids have finally tired of swimming, splashing and screaming, and
have headed back to the house. The visitors from the city have loaded
their rubber rings, face masks, and flippers back into their cars,
and driven off. I am left alone on the river bank as the sun dips
closer to the mountains. A wonderful peace and calm falls over the
scene.
From where I sit, the setting sun is directly over
the river, off to my right, and the surface of the water has taken
the colour and texture of the evening sky. The glassy sheet is
covered with streams of pollen dust, over which dragonflies skim back
and forth, occasionally dipping down to touch the surface and toss a
tiny burst of diamonds into the air. The water is disturbed from
below as well, as the tiny fingerlings swimming there rise up to
nibble at the invisible gnats flittering over the water.
How I now regret my 'modern' education! This scene
is made for poets, but I have no poetry in me. Men of just a couple
of generations ago, who read their Keats and Wordsworth from an early
age ... perhaps those men could describe what I see this evening.
They could find the phrases to describe those shadows that pass by
under the river surface over against the far bank, the deep deep
place made even darker by the thick grove of trees that leans over
the water there.
But even as I watch, one of the shadows rises
nearer the surface, and colours become apparent. It is a koi, orange
and white, followed by another, and then two more, one white, one
grey. They don't come all the way up to the surface, but hover about
a foot below, swimming slowly this way and that, then coming to the
shallows near where I sit. I see that they are followed by a mass of
tiny fishes, presumably finding food in the mud stirred up by the
bigger koi.
As the sun dips even further, I hear a faint buzz
behind me, and when I look over my shoulder, find that the field
there has also transformed. Floating in uncountable millions over the
golden rice are midges, cloud after boiling cloud of them. And
darting through the clouds are hundreds more dragonflies, enjoying an
evening feast.
Everywhere I look now, the scene is full of life -
the fields, the river, the forest opposite. All these creatures, who
had been quietly hiding or sleeping while we humans took our turn
during the day, now come out to do their own business as we in turn
leave for our own sleep.
Perhaps it will continue all night, but I will not
be here to see it, because with the sun now gone below the mountain
ridge, the chill rising tells me that it is time for me too, to
leave. So I gather my things, and regretfully start for home.
But just along the bank ... a young couple more
thoughtful than I, who have prepared themselves with warm clothes,
are settling in for an evening picnic. I leave the river to them. And
that's just how it should be. These lovers will pick up where I leave
off. They will find no poetic frustration in this scene, for they
will need to use no words ...
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Rice Dreams
I have been coming here to the countryside in
August nearly every year since I moved to Japan, more than eight
years ago. While here, I sit at the window of a second-floor room
that overlooks the valley, and spend a few hours each morning working
on one of my woodblocks. I'm not such a serious worker in the summer,
and I spend a lot of time daydreaming, just looking out the window.
Green-coated mountains provide the backcloth, and the river flows by
off on the left side, with a scattered arm of the village visible
behind it. On the main stage, front and centre, are the rice fields,
an absolute sea of rice, extending out and off stage to my right.
When I first came here, these fields were set out in a rough
patchwork pattern, but a half-dozen years ago, there was a major
consolidation, and they are now all long wide rectangles.
At the time of year that I am here, the harvest is
well under way, and the miniature combines are chewing their way back
and forth across each field. By the time I leave, this work is pretty
much finished, the rice has been trucked away for processing and
distribution, and nothing but the stubble is left in my view.
Every year I see this same scene, and only this
scene. I only get to see the harvesting part of rice growing. I feel
like somebody who keeps going to see the same movie time after time,
but who always arrives at the theatre late, and only sees the final
reel. I already know how it finishes, I want to see it start!
Of course I've seen photos and read descriptions
of the other parts of the process, and have a basic idea of how it
all works. Even in the part of Tokyo where I live, there are a few
small rice fields, and one spring recently there was a rice-planting
activity for the school kids, so they (and I!) could see this
important part of Japanese culture. But what's missing for me, is the
view of the process as a cycle ... from preparation, seeding and
planting, through development, up to harvest, and then winnowing,
polishing, etc., right up to the table.
Up in the mountains behind this summer workroom
where I am writing this, is the old abandoned farm about which I have
written before. Okunono. 'Farthest Fields'. Grandad's old farm. We
have visited Okunono many times, and a couple of years ago spent the
entire month of August 'roughing it' up there. And I mean roughing
it. No electricity, no gas, no road for access. This is the place
where the mother of my two daughters grew up, and at one point, she
and I played around with the idea of taking off from Tokyo and moving
up there for a while. I think for her, the motivation was to kind of
get back to her 'roots', and take care of her family home, but for
me, one attraction was the thought that I would finally be able to
see, participate in, and understand the rice cycle. All the old farm
equipment is still there, stored away in the old house, the river
still flows by just as vigourously, and although the fields
themselves are getting quite broken-down, they could still be
repaired.
I should make it clear that I understand very well
what such a project would entail. Month upon month of back-breaking,
dirty labour. I would not consider taking on such a life-style
permanently, as I am quite comfortable with my modern conveniences,
but wouldn't that be an adventure for a year! And then to eat the
food that we had so carefully nurtured ... Don't laugh! I've never
done that!
Alas, our divorce last year, and her move to
Canada, have put an end to such dreams, and to my connection with
Okunono. But it hasn't put an end to my desire for such an
experience. Perhaps in a few more years, when my big printmaking
project is done, I will have the opportunity to try it. It's not
something I would do alone, but if I happened to meet the right
partner, someone who loved the country, and who knew the details of
the process (because I sure don't), then perhaps I'll get my chance.
I know there are lots of abandoned farms out there in Japan. How do
you think I'd look with mud between my toes?
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Big Feet, Light Steps ...
I spent an hour or so the other evening sitting in
the dark on the river bank, listening to the night sounds. I heard a
car pull up at the nearby bridge, and then a short time later, two
men came into view, wading in the shallow water. They were easy to
see, because one of them carried a large flashlight, and the other
had a lamp mounted on his head, to illuminate wherever he was
looking. They also carried spears, trident-tipped rubber-propelled
spears. Night fishermen.
They were making plenty of noise, so I didn't
think they had much chance of catching anything, but I was afraid
that they might stumble across the hiding place of the golden
coloured carp who lives in a certain deep place under the banks just
over there, or that large stone sitting in the centre of the sandy
area, where this afternoon I disturbed a huge fat crab, or that shoal
in mid-stream where a thick crowd of fingerlings was rising for
insects just a short time before. But they didn't even have the
patience for something that easy. After about five minutes of
splashing around, they gave up, one saying to the other, "Aw forget
it. There's nothing left in this river, anyway." A minute later, all
was silent again.
I suppose to long-time residents of this village,
that comment was pretty much true. "Nothing left in this river." They
tell me that it used to be full of life; ayu, unagi, crabs, ebi, and
more. And those are only the edible species, the ones everybody
notices. With the total disruption of the river's ecology brought
about by our intrusions, I am sure that many microscopic-level
species have also disappeared.
I really have to confess to mixed feelings about
our impact on this planet. How much is natural? How much is perverse?
If I walk down the street and crush some ants, I don't feel that I
have done anything 'wrong'. I have big feet, they are very small. As
a consequence, they are very numerous. That is the nature of things.
If however, I were to walk along watching carefully, and tried to
stomp on as many as I could, that would be different, wouldn't it?
Instead of a 'normal' balance between our two species, I have now
shifted things. My new attitude says in effect, "I want to destroy
you. Instead of sharing this living space together, I want it all for
myself."
Now you're laughing. "Who cares about ants? There
are zillions of them. As a species, they'll probably outlive human
beings!" Well, maybe so, but it's not the ants I'm worried about,
it's our attitude. We can either live together with the other
inhabitants of this earth, or we can destroy everything.
But those two fishermen. Were they really doing
anything wrong? They were simply looking for food, and in an honest
way, hunting for themselves, the things they intended to eat. They
are certainly more honest than I am. Where did the fish come from
that I ate last week? Probably a devastated over-fished eco-system
out in the ocean somewhere. Me? I just 'close my eyes' and eat.
But now, there's nothing left in the river. Me,
and those fishermen, and the rest of you too, obviously have to
rethink our attitudes. Behaviour patterns that worked just fine when
humans were far less numerous than now, have to be changed. The
bottomless, endless, 'natural' supermarket in which we once lived is
closing down. Time is running out, and we must now change our ways.
I have just finished reading the book, "The
Diversity of Life", by Edward O. Wilson, noted biologist and writer.
It is a very interesting and eye-opening description of just how much
more vast this 'sea of life' on earth is than most of us realize, and
also of the astonishing rate at which this diversity is now being
lost, mostly due to human activity. His conservative (!) estimate is
that species are now being lost at the rate of about 27,000 per year
... 74 per day ... or about 3 per hour. Extinct. Lost forever. "Let's
go home. Nothing left in this river, anyway ..."
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